


Rehearsing My Pretty Please

by uistic



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uistic/pseuds/uistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter's made it clear that there is no room for Dean Ambrose or Roman Reigns in his future and he's trying to move on. It's easier said than done, though, when Ambrose is there at every turn with his fists and his gum and his ratty tank tops and manic grins and gutter mouth filled with threats and taunts, and the way nothing ever gets to him, ever, the way you can beat him and beat him and beat him and he still won’t stay down. It’s like his brain can’t comprehend losing. Like he’s playing a whole different ball game, with his own personal set of rules and his own score board, and he’ll hate you and curse you and foam at the mouth at you like a rabid dog but he won’t get down and he won’t admit defeat and he’ll never stop coming, ever. And Seth is probably going to hell for it, but damn if he doesn’t find that kind of hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rehearsing My Pretty Please

**Author's Note:**

> Set right after Smackdown 27/6 2014.

He curbstomps Ambrose against the mat, and damn if it doesn't feel good. The surge of adrenaline and fury leaves him giddy. When he gets backstage and Hunter claps his shoulder, tells him "good job, kid", the praise fills him with pleasure, the perfect ending to a damn near perfect night. He's preening, can't help it. Even the dark look Orton gives him can't touch the glow of satisfaction.

Michael Cole can talk all he wants about sneak attacks being Seth Rollins' modus operandi, but Ambrose had it coming. Let him be rattled, going into the Money in the Bank Ladder Match. Let him be bruised and battered and looking over his shoulder for a change.

They go out that night, Hunter insisting on making sure there's no hard feelings between the face and the future of the WWE. The feelings are nothing but hard, but Seth can fake it with the best of them, and Orton's chilly smile is as good as it's ever going to get. He wonders if Hunter's blind to the fact that there's no room for both of them at the top, or if he's pitting them against one another on purpose.

Still, he toasts Orton, Hunter and Steph, the business and their sure-to-be victory at the weekend's pay-per-view until his head is spinning.

The high lasts him all the way back to the hotel, through back pats and high fives, until he closes the door behind him and his suite is just like he left it: quiet, empty, clean.

Then he crashes, hard.

He can’t remember the last time the after-show jitters hit him like this. There's too much space and not enough air, and in the silence all he hears is the racing of his heart. He ends up hunched over the toilet, throwing up every drink he's had, and then keeps heaving long after his stomach is empty.

He's still there, white porcealin cool against his forehead, when someone pounds on the door. He can't afford to ignore it, is not secure enough among the Authority to appear weak, so he rinses his mouth, splashes water in his face, and throws a glance in the mirror on his way to the door. He looks presentable enough, still in his suit trousers, sleeves rolled up, jacket tossed on the back of a chair. It’s not Hunter, though, or even one of his lackeys. It's Dean Ambrose, in jeans and a hoodie, grinning at him. "Hello, princess."

Seth slams the door in his face.

"Oh, come on, Seth," Ambrose calls through the door. "Don't be that way. I've got something for you."

The thing is, Seth doesn't want to be alone. The suite is too big, the silence deafening, and now Ambrose is here as the most abrasive lifeline in the history of the world and Seth can't bring himself to want him to leave. Ambrose is rapping his knuckles against the door in a maddening off-beat rythm, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, tap-tap, that sets Seth's teeth on edge.

"Here, Sethie, Sethie, Sethie," he calls, and Seth relishes the red hot fury that wells up in him and washes out everything shaky and panicky and weak.

He tears the door open. "What the hell do you want?"

Ambrose pauses with one hand suspended in mid-air. "Someone might have slipped me your room number. I figured I might see for myself what being a backstabbing bitch gives you." Ambrose pushes past Seth and walks inside, turning and taking in the size of the suite. He whistles. "Nice. Must have given Daddy one hell of a blowjob for this."

If Seth has learned one thing over the years they’ve known one another, it’s that sometimes, when Ambrose is in a mood, the only way to win is to not engage. He sighs, swallows his irritation and his bristling pride, and pulls the door shut. If the lack of reaction bothers Ambrose, he doesn’t let on. Seth watches with a mixture of annoyance and wariness as he moves through the suite, picks up the remote and tosses it in a corner, pushes the paintings askew, licks his fingertip and drags it across the flatscreen tv, messes with the curtains, casually picks up Seth’s gym bag and drops it on the floor, all the while chewing his goddamned gum and tapping his collarbone in a staccato rhythm. Finally he crouches down by the minibar and pulls out every bottle, one after the other, lining them up on the counter.

It drives Seth crazy, but that’s no surprise. Dean Ambrose is, hands down, the most irritating man he's ever met. He’s loud, obnoxious, unpredictable, impulsive and violent, but from the first moment their hands touched in the ring back in FCW, the chemistry between them were off the charts. Wrestling is everything to Seth, everything he ever wanted, and when he went up against Dean Ambrose in the ring for the first time he’d felt like he’d never be satisfied wrestling anyone else again. No one moves like he does because no one thinks like he does, and when they’re together in the ring the synergy is breathtaking.

Still, you've got to sacrifice to get ahead. Hunter's made it clear that there is no room for Dean Ambrose or Roman Reigns in his future and he's trying to move on. It's easier said than done, though, when Ambrose is there at every turn with his fists and his gum and his ratty tank tops and manic grins and gutter mouth filled with threats and taunts, and the way nothing ever gets to him, ever, the way you can beat him and beat him and beat him and he still won’t stay down. It’s like his brain can’t comprehend losing. Like he’s playing a whole different ball game, with his own personal set of rules and his own score board, and he’ll hate you and curse you and foam at the mouth at you like a rabid dog but he won’t get down and he won’t admit defeat and he’ll never stop coming, ever. And Seth is probably going to hell for it, but damn if he doesn’t find that kind of hot.

"Why are you here, Ambrose? It's getting late, I want to sleep."

Ambrose gives him a flat look. He grabs a bottle of whiskey, leaves the door to the minibar open, and plomps down on the couch, putting his filthy shoes on the table. "Tough. I'm staying." He salutes Seth with the bottle and takes a deep swig.

Seth watches his throat work as he swallows, the long fingers wrapped around the bottle, the condensation glistening on his lips. He tears his gaze away, strides over to the minibar and crouches down to put everything back in order.

"Leave it,” Ambrose says, no, _orders_. Something in his tone snags at Seth like a hook sinking into the jaw of a fish and he freezes in automatic obedience, eyes darting up. Ambrose is looking at him, and the intensity of the gaze reminds Seth of a recurring fantasy he's had for years now, with Dean and Roman starring in it for the last two. Heat is pooling in the pit of his stomach. He'd never risk his team, his brothers, for something as inconsequential as sex, but they're not a team anymore, are they? There's nothing he can do tonight that will make Dean Ambrose hate him more in the morning - or less, for that matter.

"Make me," Seth says in the petulant tone he knows that Ambrose hates.

"I don't need to make you do shit, princess. You think I haven't seen the way you look at us? Or the way you look when Daddy orders you around? I bet that's why you did it. You just couldn't resist the temptation of someone owning that scrawny ass of yours.” Ambrose takes another swig of the whiskey straight out of the bottle, then slams it down on the table and stands. "All right." He rubs his fists together, cracking his knuckles. "You're a piece of shit, Seth. So here's the deal. I'm going to punch you in the face. You're going to take it."

This is where Seth should say something, he knows. Some sharp retort, a threat, a jab at Ambrose's sanity, his obsessive stalking or his appearant lack of hobbies that aren't punching Seth in the face. Seth's good at that shit, finding the right words, the ones that will hurt the most. But he just stands up and stays rooted in place as Ambrose crosses the floor and gets right up in his face, breath hot.

"You gonna take it, Sethie boy? You gonna stand there and let me hit you?"

Seth's breath hitches. He's harder than he has any right to be, given that Ambrose hasn't even touched him. If he ever had any notion of pretending like he doesn’t want this, the chance is long gone. "...yes."

Ambrose licks Seth's cheek and grins at the sound he makes, halfway between revulsion and desire. Then he steps back and raises his hand, telegraphing the blow a mile away. The bastard makes Seth wait for it, until sweat breaks out, burns his eyes and trickles down his neck. He's not afraid of pain, per se, but waiting for it has his nerves at edge. When Ambrose shifts he flinches, then flushes when there is no blow. Seth squares his shoulders and raises his jaw just enough to look Ambrose right in the eyes.

Dean grins.

It's a hard punch. Not the worst he's taken, but enough to make him stagger. Dean's eyes darken dangerously.

"Did I say you could move?"

Seth's stomach bottoms out. He swallows thickly and shakes his head.

"If I punch you again," Dean says, "are you gonna be a good boy and stand still? Use your words, princess. I wanna hear you."

"Yes."

"Yes, _what_?"

Seth will die before he calls Dean Ambrose 'sir'. "Yes, I'll be a good boy," he echoes, deliberatively misunderstanding. It doesn't actually come out sounding that much better, and for a moment he thinks Ambrose is going to be enough of a bastard to make him say both.

Ambrose puts a hand on the scruff of his neck, an achingly familiar gesture, and pulls him in for a kiss that is more teeth than anything else. He kisses like he wrestles: viciously, unpredictably, more fury than finesse. It goes straight to Seth's head and he grabs onto Ambrose for balance, wishing for a wall, something to be shoved against. The thought of being trapped between Ambrose and a hard surface with nowhere to go does things for him and he hears himself make a whimpering, needy sound, hips jeeking forward in search for friction.

Ambrose's hand slides up his scalp and tightens in his hair, pulling his head back just a fraction. "You want this?"

" _Yes_ ," Seth hisses struggling against his grip to continue the kiss. Pressed together like this, he can feel Ambrose's erection against his thigh, and he wonders what he'd do if Seth sank down on his knees and began to undo his fly. He's seemed rather preoccupied with the idea of Seth giving blowjobs to the Authority in the last few weeks, and Seth doesn't get off on the idea of sucking Hunter's dick, but the idea of Dean Ambrose getting off on the idea of him doing it--

"Yeah? Well, you don't deserve it. I don't fuck traitors."

"Bullshit. You fuck anything that moves."

"Present company excluded," Ambrose snarls, but he’s not pulling back and he's not letting go, and Seth takes that as permission. His hands find Ambrose belt, working away at the buckle.

"You don't have to like me to fuck me," Seth whispers in his ear. "I'll make it good for you. Anything you want, Dean. It doesn't change anything. No one will know, unless you tell them. I'll be your dirty little secret. You can do anything you want to me."

Later, Seth will worry about what it means that he feels so powerful when he's offering to submit, but right now he's just drunk on Ambrose and their close proximity, and the threat/promise of sex and violence tangled up so tight that there's no telling what's what. He slips a hand under Ambrose's hoodie, pulls up the t-shirt, running his fingers over his flat stomach.

Ambrose shoves him back, right into the coffee table. There's a crash as a half-empty glass of water and the cufflinks Hunter gave him to commemorate the best decision of his career hits the floor, and Ambrose pins him, thighs bracketing his, their bodies pressed together. One of the cufflinks is digging into Seth’s shoulder and the spilled water is staining his three-hundred dollar dress shirt and he really, really doesn’t care.

"You're such a whore," Ambrose growls in his ear. "Bet you'd love it if I told everyone. If I told Ro. Bet you’d love for him to be here right now, so he could hear you talk dirty like that, hear you beg me to fuck you."

Seth makes a choked sound. Pretty much the only thing that would be hotter than Dean is Roman and Dean, together. Seth's spent years working around his attraction, trying to hide it, and right now, with Dean half threatening to fulfill the fantasy he’s been nurturing in secret for so long, he can't even remember why. He bucks up against Dean, struggling to capture his mouth in a kiss.

Dean bites his neck, hard, and it's just on the wrong side of painful and Seth gasps, jerking underneath him. Tendrils of fear mix with the arousal as it occurs to him that though Dean might not be crazy, he sure as fuck doesn't think like normal people do. The ladder match's just a couple of days away and if Dean injures him now-

Ambrose smacks him over the head. "Stop thinking, dickface."

"Ow!" Seth glares and bats his hand away. "I'm not-"

"Like fuck you aren't. You think just 'cause you decided to go all Shining on us with that chair I don't know you anymore? I'm not gonna break your pretty little face, princess. I'm saving that for Sunday. I'll tear you apart in front of that crowd, I'll kick your ass so fucking hard you'll be crawling back to Daddy, weeping and whimpering and begging him to save you. This? This is just foreplay."

And there it is again, that tone that makes Seth lightheaded and heavy at the same time. He's embarrassed, suddenly, by how turned on he is, and the only saving grace is that at least it seems to be mutual.

"Let me up," he says. "Let me touch you."

Ambrose grins. "Nah. You look good like this. You belong on the floor."

Who even says things like that? Dean Ambrose, that’s who. Seth is blushing and doesn't know where to look. He grabs Dean's neck, tries to pull him down for a kiss to end the torture of being scrutinized like that, like Dean is looking straight into his head and seeing every dirty fantasy he’s ever had. But Dean just wrests free, grabs Seth’s wrist and pins it again, and Seth kind of likes being caught, likes it enough that he only puts in a token resistance before he surrenders, slumping back on the floor.

”All right,” he says, hoarse. ”Now what?"

”Now you beg."

”I’m not going-"

”Yeah. You are.” Dean shifts, leans down, trails a line of kisses along Seth’s jaw, down his neck, nuzzles his collarbone. ”Because if you don’t, I’ll walk out."

Seth’s pulse is pounding in his ears. He closes his eyes for a moment, stifling a moan as Dean’s kisses turn sharp, laced with teeth. The hot breath on his skin makes a shiver run down his spine and he turns his head to the side, unsure if he’s trying to escape or just give Dean better access.

”C’mon, Sethie,” Dean says, and Seth’s gratified to hear that he’s a little breathless too. ”You gotta beg for it. I’m not giving you anything more until you do."

”Thought you said you didn’t fuck traitors."

”So? You’re a clever boy. I’m sure you’ll think of something you can do besides taking it up the ass."

”Fuck you,” Seth growls.

Ambrose laughs and bites his earlobe, sending another little shiver down his spine. ”Yeah, no, not gonna happen. Try again, princess. Beg.” He digs his nails deep into Seth’s wrists, and how the fuck is he supposed to explain those marks to Orton during practice tomorrow?

It should be easy. Seth has never been averse to begging, it’s just words, he’d even go so far as to say that he’s good at it. And there’s a large part of him that longs to do it now, to earn a grin from Ambrose, a sarcastic, aggravating ”good boy”. He’s so hard it hurts and he’d do anything to keep Dean’s hands on him, keep him entertained, engaged, but he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. His heart is pounding a thousand beats a minute and he’s terrified of asking for the wrong thing, terrified of being rejected, of laying it out there and being laughed at. Dean hates his guts. There is no way, none, that he’ll give Seth what he wants. And yet--

Ambrose reads his silence the wrong way. The loss of contact is sudden and devastating. ”Fine,” is all he says as he gets up to leave.

”Wait!” Seth says as he scrambles to his knees, a crack in his voice. ”Please."

Ambrose turns back, unimpressed. ”Please what? Put some fucking effort into it, will you? Convince me."

Seth wets his lips. ”Please let me touch you, Dean.” It comes out rushed, barely intelligible, but it’s needy enough to pass as begging, Seth thinks, and it didn’t kill him and Dean’s not laughing, so he gathers his courage and keeps going. ”Let me taste you. Please. I’ll be so good. You have no idea. I’ve been wanting it for so long, wanting you, I’ll do it any way you want, please, let me just, please, Dean."

There’s a perceptible shift in the air, suddenly the room feels smaller, darker. Dean takes a step closer, eyes locked on Seth’s. ”Keep going."

”I’ve fantasized about it for years. Being on my knees for you, your hands tangled in my hair, choking on your cock. I want it so bad, Dean. It’s been fucking torture, being so close to you, having everything and not that, not touching, you drive me crazy, always have, I, I just, _please_ let me have it, please."

When Dean smiles, it’s sharp and sad and somehow bitter, all at the same time, and it’s not the kind of smile Seth wants right now but man is it better than nothing. ”All right. Show me what a good boy you can be."

Seth really doesn’t have to be told twice. He scoots over, still on his knees, and tears open Dean's fly, easing jeans and underwear down over his hips. The sound Dean makes when Seth takes his cock into his mouth ought to be illegal. He tangles his fingers in Seth’s hair just the way he likes it and tugs, and Seth moans around his cock, running his hands up the back of Dean’s thighs, feeling his muscles tremble. This is the worst mistake he’s ever made. This is not how he’ll get Dean Ambrose out of his system. This is not creating distance, moving on. It’s definitely not what’s best for business, and Hunter will fucking kill him if he ever finds out, or worse, sideline him and let Orton have all the title shots and all the glory. Seth knows he’ll regret this in the morning, but knowing that is still not enough to make him stop. He wasn’t lying to Dean. He wants this. And Seth has always gone after what he wants, even when the price has been everything he already has. Why should this be any different?

It’s a rush of power, the reactions he’s able to provoke with just his mouth, his tongue. He didn’t expect Dean to be so expressive in his pleasure, and every little gasp and groan, every twitch of his fingers in Seth’s hair and hitch of his hips just fuels Seth’s arousal. He’s never been as glad to not be in his wrestling gear as he shifts to accommodate the bulge. It’s tempting to palm himself through the fabric, but it’d shatter his focus and he really wants to make Dean come first, see him out of control, boneless and disheveled.

It’s rushed and messy, and at any other time Seth would put on a performance, make it look good, build in a little tease, a little seduction, but there’s a sense of urgency in him, a need to make it happen now now now, and he goes with it, holding nothing back.

”Fuck, Seth,” Dean growls between gasps, and there’s something about his name in Dean’s mouth that is absolutely delicious, something about that shaky voice that makes him want to laugh in triumph. He lets his teeth graze Dean’s cock, is rewarded with a groan and a hand pulling at his hair. Dean gives no warning before he comes, and Seth feels like he probably should be pissed about it, but he’s too busy swallowing, and afterwards he’s all dizzy and breathless and high on the fact that he made Dean come, he, he did it, and possibly he’s a little out of it, because he kind of thinks there should be a championship belt for this, and the thought makes him giggle.

Dean lets his legs give way under him and sinks on the floor, their knees touching. He looks flushed, sated, calm in a way Seth hasn’t seen since, well, since before. He glares at Seth, but there’s no heat in it. ”What’s so fucking funny?"

Seth just shakes his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. ”Nothing.” He’s still hard, but the moment’s over, and when Ambrose reaches for him he blocks his hand. ”I’m good."

”The hell you are."

”Good enough.” Seth gives him a crocked little smile. There’s no joy in it, but there’s also no hurt, and right now he’ll take what he can get. ”Traitor, remember? Come back when you’re not all hung up on that chair thing, and then we’ll talk.” And, yeah, that was stupid and cruel, he sees it in the way Ambrose’s face closes down, the way he jerks back as if Seth's touch was toxic.

The silence between them is tense as they get up and Ambrose straightens out his clothes, runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at Seth, just grabs the bottle of whiskey as he goes.

At the door, he turns back. ”Seth? It _was_ our time, before you wrecked it. It will never, ever be yours."


End file.
